


you're standing on a bridge

by badteeth



Series: suffer, baby! [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Continued Hippie Nonsense, M/M, Past Drug Use, Sexual Content, Tattoos, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:04:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badteeth/pseuds/badteeth
Summary: “I’m getting a tattoo, wanna come with?”





	you're standing on a bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Well, fuck me, I guess.
> 
> "WIP Amnesty," as in, this is a glorified outline of a much better fic. May rewrite in ten thousand years when my feelings are less hurt.

“I’m getting a tattoo, wanna come with?”

Tyson glances around the hotel room significantly, then back at Colin, like, _What the fuck are you talking about?,_ which is fair enough. Even in a city like New York, there’s a certain range of things the team does away from the rink. There’s a wider range between him and Tyson, now, but Colin is asking because Tyson’s his friend, and he’s there.

“The appointment’s at three,” Colin adds. “I had to book it a year out.”

“For right now? Couldn’t even angle for an offseason slot?” Tysons asks, but before Colin can explain, Tyson says, “Yeah, sure. Are we eating first?”

They are. The nutritionists had fed them before and after practice this morning, but Colin doesn’t really want to risk it. Plus, Tyson likes to eat, and Colin likes getting out into cities as much as he can, and he also likes to eat. 

Midtown at lunchtime, though, is perhaps not the easiest time to be looking for food. They find a place they can coax sandwiches out of within half an hour and then half to stand against the wall to eat them, and—Colin doesn’t want to be the kind of person New York City isn’t for. There are things he likes about it. Being a hockey player is a niche sort of famous, but New York is enough to knock anyone to anonymity, by if not by reality then by attitude.

Despite that, Colin can’t help but wonder how they look to everyone. No one cares, but if they did glance their way, see two men standing as close as they are, if Colin’s own face would make them think—

“So,” Tyson says, sucking a line of wayward sauce off his thumb, “are you going to tell me about this surprise tattoo?”

“It’s a person. Standing on a bridge.”

Tyson laughs. “Okay, meaning?” He shoves a large section of the sandwich into his mouth but grossly has to take some back out when it turns out to be too big to finish off. They’re probably running a little behind. Colin takes a large swig of his pressed juice.

He says, “I guess it’s more important that they’re looking over the edge into this pond, and it’s reflected back at them.”

“Ahhhh,” Tyson says, nodding knowingly, eyes wide. “So it’s, like, the interconnectivity of perspective and action within the unity of the universe.”

And Colin snorts, responding, “You’re so full of shit.”

“Oh, _I’m_ full of shit?”

In all honesty, it’s not too far off from what Colin was thinking. Tyson’s a good listener, even when he’s digging in. It makes that moment of uncertainty—nerves in an unfamiliar city—seem small and unnecessary. The company that makes a place, Colin supposes.

* * *

They take the train out to the studio—it’s amazing how dense some cities can make three straight miles feel—which is also, unsurprisingly, packed. Like a never-ending supply of people. Tyson refuses to touch any of the support so he clings to Colin’s arm with one hand “ instead, pressed tight, with the other furiously typing on his phone.

“Colin,” he hisses when they’re a stop away, “this is the Rihanna place.”

“Different artist, but yeah,” Colin says, and he wants to sound casual about it, but he was pretty psyched when his inquiry got a response. It’s not really something to be proud about, paying someone to permanently mark his body, but he still feels warm when Tyson keeps furiously typing after Colin tells him his artist’s name.

“She’s really good,” Tyson finally says as they’re climbing the stairs up to the street.

“Yeah, she’s—she gets it. I talked to her during the consultation,” Colin replies. “It should be really cool.”

The shop itself is very much the sort of place where artsy celebrity tattoo artists work out of: lots of black and white with pops of color, casual within its frame. Colin checks in a little early but not awkwardly so, and him and Tyson waste time flipping through portfolios.

When the receptionist calls Colin back, they say, “And you can bring your partner, too, if you want.”

* * *

Tyson starts getting quiet around the time Trudy shaves the back of his forearm. It’s not a particularly hairy place, but Colin still feels like an ass for not thinking about it beforehand. Trudy’s nice about it but with a sort of absolute authority that makes it clear that she is in charge of this whole scene.

Shaving, disinfecting, laying down the stencil, needle to skin—each step goes too quickly to really let any dread build up.

It hurts, of course it hurts. Trudy’s got a steady hand but the constant scratch of the needle leaves his arm hot and his mind half-numb to anything but the pain. There’s no real getting used to it, but Colin is used to pain being part of the process. In theory, Colin has a phone in one hand and Tyson to the side to distract him, but the room stays quiet besides the mechanical whirl of the machine.

When Colin thinks to look at Tyson, he’s fidgeting, staring wide-eyed at Colin’s arm. He worries for a second that it might be too much for him—as much as hockey never fails to hurt in new and exciting ways, things hits different outside the rink—but the telling flush spreading across Tyson’s face washes away that worry.

The endorphins are never enough to numb Colin, but his mouth feels halfway out of order when he asks, “Ya like it?”

“Looks great, babe,” he responds, voice pitched, and the look that Tyson shoots him is layered deep with _Be chill!!!_

When Trudy has Colin stand to look in the mirror, he’s so dizzy that he can barely parse what he’s looking at, like there’s a bubble in the middle of his brain, but he says, “Wow, it looks amazing. I love it. I _love_ it.” And he makes it out of the shop without passing out or leaning too much on Tyson, so, really, it’s a successful afternoon.

Tyson demands they Uber back to the hotel, and he doesn’t sit still the entire ride.

“Does it hurt?” he asks after just enough time to make it clear he tried not to.

“Yeah,” Colin responds, honest, “but not a lot. And it’s just part of the process, you know?”

Tyson makes some high noise in the vague shape of agreement, and Colin does his very best not to be smug and Tyson follows him back up to his hotel room, pushes him back onto the mattress, climbs on top of him.

He’s still adjusting, tight and hot on Colin, head lolled back, eyes closed, when Colin reaches up to pinch a steel-threaded nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Tyson gasps hard and his hand jolts to grasp Colin’s wrist, but he doesn’t pull Colin away as rubs at the raised nub apologetically. 

“You _like_ it,” Colin says accusedly, joyously.

“Shut up,” Tyson responds with a roll of his hips.

* * *

Colin falls asleep practically before Tyson is off of him and wakes up sweaty with Tyson glued down his side. Trying to extract himself sends a stinging ring around his arm—mostly from the tape. 

In the bathroom, Colin peels the plastic off of the tattoo before getting in the shower. He’s careful getting the blood and goop and ink off. Even once he’s back in front of the mirror, it’s hard to get a good angle on it, but the satisfaction of a plan conceived and executed and now on his body, forever, still settles over him.

Tyson’s kicked himself out from beneath the sheets and taken to scrolling through his phone by the time Colin walks back out. “Let me see it,” he damns, so Colin does. Tyson holds onto his arm with an overabundance of caution; the ache’s mostly faded, however much of an open wound it remains.

“Can you take a picture?” Colin says. “I need something to send to people.”

 _“Shut up,”_ Tyson says again, although Colin didn’t mean it that way. It makes him laugh. Tyson’s quiet for an unusually long moment before he jumps into defending himself, “It’s not a _thing_ thing, you know? Like I don’t sitting around jerking off to Instagram clips or whatever, it’s just—bodies, and doing what we want with them, you know?”

“Sure,” Colin replies, turning it over in his head. It makes him smile— or, well, maybe just Tyson does.

When Colin finally sends a photo in the group text—and it does look great—his phone freezes from all the messages. They barely manage to get manage to get most of their clothes on before there’s banging at the door. Colin likes his teammates, likes them a lot, and it still feels like a moment closing. But Tyson’s looking back at him, so Colin kisses him, slow and deep for just a second, before going to preserve this team’s relationship with this hotel.

* * *

Colin makes the mistake of actually letting Tyson read the book when they get back to Denver.

“Colin,” Tyson says. _“Colin,_ these are penises.”

The page Tyson’s holding up does, indeed, seem to be heavily featuring some phallic imagery. Several lines of defense pop up in Colin’s mind—that’s not the page he put on his body, what religious text ignores sex, and, anyway, it’s not really a relgious text, really, for Colin, just closer than most get—but he’s trying to focus on not fucking up carbonara—which, honestly, why did he even halve the recipe, like both of them don’t have third stomachs for pasta—so he just says, “I think you’re reading things a little to literally.”

“I think that’s the opposite of the problem,” Tyson mutters. Colin ignores him.

Dinner’s nice, and so is dessert. They watch Chopped and act like they’ve ever cooked anything more complex than recipes that they’ve gotten from their moms or the actual physical subscription to Bon Appetit that Tyson obtained at some point.

Things are still tense, and not just, like, in a horny way or a bored way. Eventually, Colin knocks his foot against Tyson’s ankle. It feels good when Tyson swings his foot back. “Hey,” Colin says. “What’s up?”

Tyson sighs hard, and Colin does his very best not to brace for a fight when Tyson says, “I just— I don’t know. Do you really believe the stuff in that book?”

“Yeah,” Colin says. It’s not like Colin’s never had to explain himself or his views to teammates before, or with Tyson before, but usually, with him, it feels less loaded, more like a good conversation than an assessment. “I mean, not literally, text-to-life, and it’s not the only reading I’ve done, but… It was one of the first things I read that really turned me onto all this, back in college, so I guess some of it is memory and some of it is feeling, but it’s not insignificant to me.”

Tyson snorts, lightly, and his voice sounds like it’s attempting to be light when he says, “So EJ really isn’t joking exaggerating his college days,” but he’s still not looking at Colin, either.

“He definitely is,” Colin responds, trying to meet Tyson’s tone. “It was for a drugs and society class I took. Only B I got the whole time.”

That got a more genuine laugh. Tyson looks towards the ceiling and kicks back at Colin’s foot. Colin tries to be patient while whatever is coming simmers; it’s not like Tyson to sit on things, so he knows it’s coming, but what, Colin can’t know. It’s hard to remember the whole point of the thing they’re even, what, arguing about? Whatever is about to happen is fine. Colin needs to let it happen. Loss and gain, they’re all just happening. It’s fine.

Colin reaches out and laces his fingers with Tyson’s, because they’re there and he can and he wants to.

“It’s just,” Tyson starts. “Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what _I_ want, but it’s, like, are we even aiming in the same direction? Is this enough? Am I too boring? Have I done enough molly for you?”

Colin blinks. “You’ve done molly?”

Tyson scoffs. “I went to high school.”

And Colin laughs, although it comes out more like a squawk. “Guess you had more fun in high school than I did.”

“Shut the fuck up, Colin, do not even _pretend_ with me—”

“I didn’t say anything! And, you know, if you’d actually read the book, it’s very clear in minimizing the importance of psychedelics in enlightenment—”

_“Colin.”_

Colin really can’t stop himself from giggling, admittedly a little out of panic. He says, eventually, because it’s true, “I want you.”

“Colin,” Tyson repeats, and the, what, dread? That was in his voice before has returned, and it’s a sobering thing. Tyson squeezes Colin’s hand, hard, before forcing out, “I want you, too. For real.”

It takes effort for Colin not to just parrot it back, because Colin _does_ want Tyson, and this _is_ real—but he can feel the same ideals he’s kept between him and commitment weaseling in, too, the exact things that Tyson doesn’t want to hear, and it makes him feel far too seen.

What’s there to say? Colin could walk out of Tyson’s front door and never do any of this again, and he’d survive. He could leave Denver and hockey and this country altogether, and none of that would fundamentally change him on any level but the superficial. 

Except that isn’t true, either; Colin cares a lot about loyalty, valuing the good in his life. Does Tyson feel like Colin doesn’t appreciate the time that they spend together? Like he doesn’t spend whole days waiting for the next time they get to be alone?

A hand grasps Colin’s jaw and turns his face. Tyson says, “You’re having a crisis.”

“No, I’m not,” Colin lies.

Tyson shakes his head and some echo of a smile crosses his face before he kisses Colin softly, then, just as fast, with a fire that makes Colin’s head spin. When he pulls pack, Colin’s mind deposits into a just slightly different form, even as Tyson says, “Listen, I’m not saying I need anything right now, just— that’s where I’m at, alright?”

“Alright,” is all Colin can say right now, but he doesn’t let Tyson pull back when he tries to. They find themselves in an awkward huddle neither of them will give each other an inch out of, and Colin thinks about risks, about the price of staying, committing, and squeezes Tyson even closer. 

**Author's Note:**

> [The tattoo is real,](https://www.instagram.com/p/BpuaXpVnhUn/) but my timeline is fucked to hell. I'm assuming he got it in the summer and the November post is a healed shot. In a Ryan Clark article for The Athletic, Colin explained: "In looking at himself, he sees the whole universe. In Hinduism, it says, ‘I look for God and only found myself. I look for myself but only found God.’ It’s that aspect of it." 
> 
> The book is also real; it's called Remember, Be Here Now by Ram Dass. These ([x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2a06d0df359001591a4885e8ce333adf/7f3be05aba1f261c-22/s640x960/9ca99f06045db68ac6660131f149daeac46098cc.jpg) , [x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/1d9c7b4820a5fd697174c8b6306063e5/7f3be05aba1f261c-ca/s640x960/95948c6bb93478df4b8e84ee51fec44b011e4650.jpg)) are the pages that Colin got tattooed. [This](https://66.media.tumblr.com/f0a4e7c15b7adf0bb0d4b2a566a39880/7f3be05aba1f261c-74/s640x960/d3af75816984bf46f8f6d1474035b5cda7bb6680.jpg) is the page I got the title for the previous fic, and also the one Tyson was talking about this fic. No, I don't know what a scanner nor a Dropbox is.
> 
> Don't say the hippie nonsense wasn't tagged for.
> 
> [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/post_madonna)


End file.
